


Epilogue: The Weather'd Storm

by KareliaSweet



Series: Storms [7]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Closure, M/M, Monster Hunters, Monsters, Seer Bedelia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-04
Updated: 2017-02-04
Packaged: 2018-09-21 17:32:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9559745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KareliaSweet/pseuds/KareliaSweet
Summary: “She has many names. When I knew her she was Lady Fell, before that they called her Lydia.”“And what does she go by now?”“Madame DuMaurier.”





	

The dragon’s body lays broken in her garden. Bedelia hums thoughtfully at it.

“Hello, Francis.”

The dragon twitches in one last death-knell, blood caking from neck to navel. His belly pouts open, guts spilled out in greeting. Bedelia cocks her head.

“This would have been so much easier if you’d listened.”

-x-

Sir Francis Dolarhyde is the first to visit the young Augur known only as Lydia. He is a battle worn knight with scars on his face that aptly reflect the ugliness inside. He barges into her caravan and bangs his armoured fists on her table.

“I want to become--”

“I know what you’re here for,” Lydia says, “you wish to transform.”

“It is what I was born to be.”

Lydia, still fresh in her power and a little too cocky, rolls her eyes at him. “I can assure you it was not.”

Francis growls at her and pushes his face close to hers. “You do not know me.”

Lydia does not budge, just keeps her eyes fixed on his. “I very much do, Sir Dolarhyde. I also know that if you do not step away I will pluck out your eyes, and I know for a fact that a blind dragon is as useful as a cock made of custard.”

Francis backs away with a grumble. “I don’t like you.”

“How fortunate for me,” Lydia replies smoothly, “that I do not require those who request my services to like me at all.’

She walks to her small desk and runs her fingers across the books she keeps upon it.

‘’I can do this for you. But I must warn you, if you become this, you will die.”

Francis waves a hand. “Everyone dies.”

“True. But some sooner than others.”

“Enough of your fortune teller shit,” Francis spits, “how is this done?”

Lydia picks up a heavy leather bound book from the desk and flips it open to an illustration of a red dragon. It has golden eyes, taloned wings the colour of dried blood, massive horns that coil like a ram’s, and sharp dripping fangs. She tears the page out and hands it to him. Francis stares at it in awe.

“Eat it,” she instructs.

Francis looks up in confusion. “Now?”

Bedelia huffs at him in exasperation. “No, not _now_ , I have no need for a dragon appearing in the middle of my home. Do it when you are far from here, and alone.”

He folds the paper carefully and tucks it into the sleeve of his armour.

“What is my payment?”

Bedelia closes up the book and turns to him solemnly.

“Once you become the dragon, you will have unceasing hunger. There are many you will kill, but there is one you may not.”

Francis shakes his head violently. “You don’t get to tell me who I can’t kill.”

“Yes,” Lydia says sharply, “I really do.”

Francis laughs nastily. “I already have the page.”

Lydia holds up her hand, in which the paper has reappeared. “No you fucking don’t.”

He grabs at it, making whining sounds. This man is intolerable. If it weren’t bound in the stars for him to make this transformation, Lydia would be more than happy to turn him into a newt. Finally, he relents, stepping away from her with a peevish pout.

“It is just one?”

“One,” Lydia confirms. “You will know him as Perkūnas.” Her eyes narrow and darken dangerously. “And _I_ will know if you hurt him.”

She knows that Mischa Lecter is already doomed. Her death is a fixed point that cannot be altered no matter how much it may hurt her brother.

“Very will,” Francis says begrudgingly. “But I will spare no others.”

“I understand,” Lydia says, “but do consider staying away from Monster Hunters.”

Francis spits - _spits_ \- on her floor. “Fuck Monster Hunters.”

Lydia is going to be very glad when this idiot gets slain in her backyard a hundred years from now.

She will miss Robert Graham, though, once she meets him. If she could feel guilt for dooming his and Mischa’s souls, she would. But she has paved the first step on the path that will bring the Wolf and the Stag together, and many must die for destiny to fulfill itself.

The course of true love, after all, never did run smooth.

-x-

Seventy years later, the kitsune visits Lady Fell in her pagoda, sheltered behind a crop of beech trees and blue cedar.

She bows before the Lady, her three tails still and flat behind her. Lady Fell bows in return and they sit opposite each other in silence.

“What is it you want of me, kitsune?”

The kitsune keeps her head bowed and speaks quietly. “My name is Chiyoh. I seek wisdom.”

Lady Fell, still young enough to laugh loudly, does exactly that. Chiyoh frowns.

“I do not see what is amusing.”

“Wisdom cannot be granted, child.”

“I am not a child.”

“You are if you think there is a shortcut to wisdom.”

Chiyoh’s tails bristle and twitch. “That is not what I ask for. I ask for you to lead me toward it.”

“You think you will not find it here?”

“I have lived in Honshu for more than five lifetimes and my tails are but three. There is nothing left for me to learn.”

“Are you running from a lover?”

“No.”

“Family?”

“No.”

“Debt?”

“No!”

Lady Fell reaches across the table and grabs Chiyoh’s hand, turning it over to trace fingers over the lines on her palm.

“You speak the truth. Here is what I can offer you.” Lady Fell sets the girl’s hand gently down. “The Lady Murasaki is seeking a handmaiden.”

Chiyoh stands in anger, tails alert and standing on end. “I am no one’s handmaiden!”

Lady Fell does not move, and when she speaks her voice is cool and even. “You are young, kitsune, so I will forgive your impudence. But be careful in how you speak to me. You came to me for guidance, and rudeness is not a payment I accept.”

Chastened, Chiyoh sits again, but her tails still twitch minutely.

“You have my apologies,” she murmurs quietly.

Lady Fell nods. “And I take them. So.” She folds her fingers together. “You will be called across the sea. The Lady will marry. It is her family you must guard.”

“What family?”

“Their name is Lecter. Protect them however you can, and with your life.”

“This will bring me wisdom?”

“If you allow it.”

Chiyoh nods, a little wary, but accepting. She reaches for her coin purse but Lady Fell holds up her hand.

“I don’t need your money.”

“But,” one of Chiyoh’s tails curl into a question mark, “your payment?”

Lady Fell freezes, her spine taut. She blinks once, slowly and when she opens her eyes they have turned milk-white. She reaches forward and holds Chiyoh’s chin in her hand, looking deep into her eyes.

“When the time comes, you will want to kill the Winged Man. Do not. You will need him as an offering.”

Chiyoh startles. “What Winged Man? And what offering?”

Lady Fell releases Chiyoh’s face. “That is your payment.”

Chiyoh rocks back on her heels, each tail pointed high in the air in alarm. Lady Fell’s eyes blink back to a cool blue, but she does not look at her again.

“You may go.”

Chiyoh nods and bows in thanks. Lady Fell smiles ruefully at her retreating figure. This one, at least, was easy. And better still, the kitsune may find her wisdom yet.

-x-

Many years after that, the father visits Madame DuMaurier in her house atop the hill, the one that looks over the town like a sloping sentinel.

His sleeves are rolled up, showing toned and sun-darkened forearms. For all that his son is scrawny and pale as moonlight, Robert Graham is hale and hearty, with ruddy cheeks that turn rosy as apples in the sun. Madame DuMaurier has found him handsome, on more than one occasion. Long before his son was born, she found him very handsome indeed, for three very exquisite nights. But they do not talk of that. Some memories are too valuable, too perfect to be dug up and picked apart and found wanting.

They sit in her kitchen, as is her current custom, and she serves him a thick slice of bread and butter coated in blackberry jam.

“I came to speak about my son,” Robert says. Madame DuMaurier does an excellent job at not rolling her eyes.

“What about him?”

“I worry,” Robert begins, then he gestures vaguely at himself and shrugs.

“You are a father. And alone at that. Fathers worry.” She knows she’s being short but children were never a particular speciality of hers.

Robert tears off a piece of bread and tucks it into his mouth. Crumbs fall to the floor and Madame DuMaurier tries not to wince.

“You know what I do,” Robert says, “better than most. You know the danger that lies in my work.”

“I do. Are you asking for protection?”

He’d better not be, she thinks. Protection spells need a significant dose of love imbued in them to make them work, and Madame DuMaurier has very little of that to spare.

“I’m not,” Robert assures her, “I’m asking you to--”

He stops, swallows his mouthful and reaches across the table to place a hand over hers.

“I’m asking you to take care of him for me, if - _when_ \- I am gone.”

Madame DuMaurier has known this question was coming. She knew it before his fist rapped sharply at her door not half an hour ago. She’d known it as she seduced him, known it as she’d dropped just-sultry-enough glances his way in the marketplace. She’d known it when he’d first been inside her, mouthing her name (the one she’d given him) hotly into her ear. And she’d known it when he’d introduced her to his wife, her belly round with child, her terrified eyes saying “ _I will abandon this boy before he remembers my face_ ”.

To be brief, she has known this question was coming before she ever met Robert Graham. And she knows there is only one answer to give.

“No.”

Robert withdraws his hand as though he’s been scalded. “ _No_?”

“No,” she repeats calmly, “I am not a mother.”

“I’m not asking you to be a mother.” Robert’s voice rises hotly. “I’m asking you to keep him from the monsters. You’re the only one who can.”

Madame DuMaurier arches one wry eyebrow. “You place far too much faith in me.”

“ _Please_ ,” Robert says, “there is a darkness in Will, I can feel it. I need someone who can lead him away from it.”

“I don’t lead, Robert. That’s far beyond my province.”

“Then just… watch him, then.” He stands and kneels before, cupping her face with uncertain hands.

“You are the only person I trust in this town.”

(Of course he is. She made sure of that.)

Madame DuMaurier breathes in sharply through her nose and makes a show of leaning into his palm.

“Come back tomorrow and I’ll give you my answer.”

Robert’s face lights up. “Thank you.” Boldly, he kisses her on the mouth. She reciprocates, because whilst she cannot claim she is ‘only human’, Robert Graham is still an exceedingly handsome man. She pushes him away with a firm hand to his chest and he leaves, giving her a glinting grin and taking the unfinished bread and jam with him.

He comes back the next day just barely after sunrise.

She makes a show of telling him what a serious request this is, how she has given it deliberate and serious consideration and does not take it lightly. She enforces that she can do nothing to alter the path that has been laid out for Will but she can guide him all the same.

Then she says yes. Of course she says yes. She’s always had to say yes. She knew that before Robert was born.

That doesn’t mean she’ll be able to keep Will Graham from the monsters. After all, that’s not what he’s destined to do.

-x-

It is another twenty-two years before the Captain visits Bedelia in her new home, a soft quaint cottage with white trellises that are overrun with ivy. It’s a little twee for her tastes, but it’s exactly the place a sorrowful husband would choose to turn to.

He is a great slab of a man, but he stands before her with his cap in his hands, his brow clouded in misery. When he chances a look at at her, his eyes are meek and gentle. If Bedelia possessed sympathy in her heart, she would feel it for him. She makes him lemon tea and leads him into the parlor.

“My wife is sick,” he says. His voice is scratchy and hoarse from crying. Bedelia gestures for him to drink some tea.

“You know I am not a doctor, yes?”

The Captain nods. “I’ve been to every doctor, and they tell me nothing can be done. But she is my life, I--,” his voice cracks and he sets down his mug with shaking hands, “I don’t know what else to do.”

Bedelia nods curtly. Such a shame when humans so breakable attach themselves to one another. It always ends in pain, one way or another. Still, there are ways to lessen it. And there are other tasks that can be completed along the way.

She leaves him at the table and goes to the pantry, taking down one of her many glass jars and shaking out its contents. She wraps seven flowers carefully in a long strip of linen cloth and ties it neatly with hessian string, then returns to the parlor where the Captain sits quietly weeping.

“Enough of that, please,” she says. The Captain dabs hastily at his eyes with a handkerchief. She hands him the small package.

“Milkthistle,” she says, “keep one flower under her pillow and grind the rest into a powder that she can drink with her tea. It will help ease the pain.”

The Captain turns the package over in his hands. “Will it heal her?”

“I am sorry,” Bedelia says, and for once almost means it, “but that is beyond my power.”

The Captain dissolves into a fresh wave of tears at that, making rather undignified sounds for such an imposing man.

“You were my last hope,” he wails, “I don’t know how to live without my Bella.”

Bedelia reclines in the armchair opposite him and takes a drink of her own, one which definitely does not contain tea.

“I said it was beyond my power,” Bedelia says. Her lips rest at the rim of her glass. “I did not say I couldn’t help you.”

The Captain looks up with her, his face wet but newly streaked with hope. “Please,” he begs, “ _please_ , anything!”

“There is a Doctor.”

“I’ve seen all the doctors.”

“You haven’t seen this one. I promise you. He keeps to himself, but his skills are… remarkable. If you call him to your village, he will end your wife’s suffering.”

The Captain sits up tall, gripping his chair arms in his large hands.

“What is this Doctor’s name?”

Bedelia takes a long draught of drink. She wipes a stray red drop away with her thumb as she sets her glass down.

“His name is Hannibal Lecter.”

The Captain pulls out a notepad and fountain pen from his pocket and hastily jots the name down.

“How do I find him?”

Bedelia shakes her head. “That is beyond my reach. All I can do is direct your path toward him.”

The Captain nods, then gets out of his chair, kneels at her feet and kisses her hands.

“Bless you. Thank you. _Thank you_.”

Bedelia learned long ago to swallow her laughter, but the sore irony of this blessing tempts her now. She pulls her hands away and places one palm on his head in dismissal.

“You may leave, Captain Crawford. Don’t forget the milkthistle.”

He bundles it up and tucks it carefully in his coat, his eyes bright for the first time.

“What can I pay you?”

“Bring your wife for tea when she is well enough. I will consider that my payment.”

The Captain smiles from ear to ear. Of course, this will never happen, but Bedelia will not take money from a man whose already numbered days have been cut so short.

“Thank you again,” he says at her door, “thank you so very much.”

She closes the door behind him and leans against it, allowing herself one heavy sigh.

“May you boys find each other and never part again.” She returns to her glass and drains its contents whole. “I would like some peace now.”

-x-

She receives one last visitor, but he does not speak. She opens the door and he looks up at her with wide brown eyes.

“Hello, Winston.”

He whines at her softly.

“Don’t worry, they’ll be fine,” Bedelia says, and Winston’s ears perk up. He looks at her expectantly.

Bedelia folds her arms and raises her eyebrows “What?”

Winston cocks his head. The air is beginning to mist with rain. He lowers his head and lets out a very melodramatic, forlorn whimper.

“Oh very well.” Bedelia holds the door open and gestures him in begrudgingly.

Winston gives her with a grateful bark and trots inside.

“Just for the night,” she tells him as she closes the door behind them.

She knows he’ll stay much longer than that. For once, she doesn’t mind.

-x-

There is another visit, long after that, but it is one Bedelia makes on her own.

  
Their names have long since worn from the gravestone. It sits near the edge of a cliff, mottled with lichen and eroded by wind and seaspray. If you squint very carefully you can just make out the ‘W’ that was once carved into its surface, though it’s mostly just a ‘V’ now. The ‘H’ underneath it has disappeared completely, but the ‘L’ at its end is still legible.

Once, the word _Always_  had been engraved on it, but that’s been gone for more than half a century. Still, she knows, it was there. She made it for them after all.

She visits them once a year, although of late it’s gotten more difficult. She’s getting old, finally. Traveling is not as easy as it once was, and the cane she uses does little to assuage the pain in her knees and hips. But she can’t complain. Four hundred and thirty eight years is nothing to scoff at. Or is it four hundred and eighty three? The mind is an untrustworthy thing these days.

Salt air stings at her face and she pulls down on the brim of her hat. She takes out a handkerchief and wipes the fresh-grown moss from the stone, traces her finger over the half-W.

Two centuries, she’s watched over them. Guarded their last resting place from vandals and vengeful survivors. But every man, woman, and child who cursed their names has since passed from this earth. The Wolf and the Stag are forgotten.

Well, not exactly. They’ve become legends, fairy tales, ghost stories you tell your children to keep them in their beds at night. No one believes any more that they were real.

Which is for the best. Because Bedelia is so very, very tired.

“My work is done now, boys,” she says.

She presses gloved fingers to her lips and touches the top of the gravestone. Then she reaches into her purse and pulls out a scrap of cloth. It’s seen better days, but the crest sewn onto it is still clear. The face of a fawn, with the fangs of a wolf and the feathers of a raven. She places it at the foot of the stone, setting a small rock atop it to keeping it from flying away. She closes her eyes.

Two voices, one in each ear, whisper _Thank you_. She feels the phantom press of a kiss to both her cheeks.

Bedelia nods and wipes away the first and last tear she will ever shed.

“Goodbye, my monsters.”

Then she is gone.

**Author's Note:**

> And there it is.
> 
> I do hope you've enjoyed this series. Thank you so much for reading! As always I'd love to hear your thoughts. 
> 
> #MonsterHusbands for eternity. <3
> 
> (tumblr @[lovecrimevariations)](http://lovecrimevariations.tumblr.com/)


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